PEDESTRIANISM.
I am a great advocate of Pedestrianism, and take it to be a very honest
way of getting through the world. If you ride in a carriage you may be
upset; if you throw your leg across a horse's back you may meet with the
fate of Sir Robert Peel; and as to getting into a railway carriage, the
fearful consequences of that require for their description a more
vigorous pen than mine. I like to see a good walker; how delightful his
appetite, how firm his muscle, how healthy his cheek, how splendid his
condition. Has he a care, he walks it off; is ruin staring him in the
face, only let him have a couple of hour's walk, and he is in a condition
to meet the great enemy of mankind himself. Has his friend betrayed
him--are his hopes of fame, of wealth, of power blighted?--is his love's
young dream rudely broken? Let him away from the circles of men out on
the green turf, with the blue sky of heaven above, and in a very little
while the agony is over, and "Richard's himself again." Were it only for
the sake of the active exercise it inculcates and requires I would
say--Long live the Rifle Corps movement. The other day a gallant little
band in my own immediate neighbourhood set out for an evening's march.
They were in capital spirits; they were dressed in their Sunday best;
they had a band playing at their head; a miscellaneous crowd, chiefly
juvenile, with a few occasional females behind, brought up the rear. A
deputy of the London Corporation and his brother formed part of the
devoted troop. Gaily and amidst cheers they marched from the bosoms of
their families, leaving "their girls behind them." On they went, up-hill
and down-hill, many a mile, amidst Hornsey's pleasant green lanes, till
at length the London deputy turned pale, and intimated--while his limbs
appeared to sink beneath him, and his whole body was bathed in
sweat--that he could stand it no longer. The spirit was willing, but the
flesh was weak. A halt was ordered--beer was sought for for the London
deputy, and with considerable difficulty they got the martial hero home.
Had that gallant man been a good pedestrian, would he not have scorned
the beer, and laughed at the idea of rest? Look at Charles Dickens--I am
sure he will forgive me the personality, as no harm is intended--why is
he ever genial, ever fresh--as superior to the crowd who imitate his
mannerism, but fail to catch his warm, sunny, human spirit, as the
Koh-i-noor to its glass counterfeit, but because no man in town walks
more than he? What a man for walking was the great Liston, foremost
operator of his age. The late Lord Suffield, who fought all the Lords,
including the bench of Bishops, in order to win emancipation for the
slave, was one of the most athletic men of his day. On one occasion he
ran a distance of ten miles before the Norwich mail as a casual frolic,
without any previous training, and he assured Sir George Stephen that he
never experienced any inconvenience from it. When we talk of a man being
weak on his pins, what does it imply but that he has been a rake, or a
sot, or a fool who has cultivated the pocket or the brain at the expense
of that machine, so fearfully and wonderfully made, we call man. The
machine is made to wear well, it is man's fault if it does not. The
pedestrian alone keeps his in good repair; our long livers have mostly
been great walkers. Taylor, the water-poet, says of old Parr--
"Good wholesome labour was his exercise,
Down with the lamb, and with the lark would rise,
In mire and toiling sweat he spent the day,
And to his team he whistled time away."
People are getting more fond of physical exercise than they were. We may
almost ask--Are we returned back to the days of the Iliad and the
Odyssey? The gentlemen of the Stock Exchange greet Tom Sayers as if he
were an emperor, and, it is said, peers and clergymen think it right to
assist at a "mill." We have heard so much about muscular
Christianity--so much stress has been laid upon the adjective--that we
seem in danger of forgetting the Christianity altogether. Undoubtedly
our fathers are to blame in some respect for this. Good Christians,
thinking more of the next world than of this, merchants, and tradesmen,
and even poor clerks, hastening to be rich, scholars aiming at fame, and
mothers of a frugal turn, have set themselves against out-door life and
out-door fun, and have done with sports and pastimes--as Rowland Hill
said the pious had done with the tunes--_i.e._ let the devil have all the
good ones. In vain you war with nature, she will have her revenge, the
heart is true to its old instincts. Man is what he was when the Greek
pitched his tent by the side of the much-sounding sea, and before the
walls of Troy; when Alexander sighed for fresh worlds to conquer; when
the young Hannibal vowed deathless hate to Rome; when the rude ballad of
"Chevy Chase," sung in baronial hall, stirred men as if it were the sound
of a trumpet; when Nelson swept the seas, and when Wellington shattered
the mighty hosts of France. Thus is it old physical sports and pastimes
never die, and perhaps nowhere are they more encouraged and practised
than by the population of our cities and towns.
The other day some considerable interest was excited in the peculiar
circles given to the study of _Bell's Life_, by the fact that Jem Pudney
was to run Jem Rowan for 50 pounds a-side, at the White Lion, Hackney
Wick. The winner was to have the Champion's Cup. Far and near had
sounded and resounded the name of Pudney the swift-footed--how he had
distanced all his competitors--how he had done eleven miles under the
hour--were facts patent to all sporting England; but against him was this
melancholy reality, that he was getting old--he was verging on
thirty-two. However, when, after a weary pilgrimage through mud, and
sleet, and rain, we found ourselves arrived at the classic spot. The
betting was very much in Pudney's favour. The race was to have commenced
at five, but it did not begin before six. We had plenty of time to look
around. Outside we had passed a motley multitude. There were cabs, and
Hansoms, and Whitechapel dog-carts in abundance. Monday is an off-day as
regards many of the operatives and mechanics of London, and they were
thronging round the door, or clambering up the pales, or peeping through
the boards, or climbing some neighbouring height, to command a view of
the race on strictly economical principles. Several owners of horses and
carts, with their wives and families, were indulging in a similar
amusement; an admission fee of one shining enabled us to penetrate the
enclosure. We pay our money and enter. The scene is not an inviting
one. Perhaps there are about a thousand of us present, and most of us
are of a class of society we may denominate rough and ready. Even the
people who have good clothes do not look like gentlemen. They have very
short hair, very flat and dark faces; have a tremendous development of
the lower jaw, and, while they are unnaturally broad about the chest,
seem unnaturally thin and weak as regards their lower extremities. Most
of the younger ones are in good sporting condition, and would be very
little distressed by a little set-to, whether of a playful or a business
nature, and could bear an amount of punishment which would be fatal to
the writer of this article, and, I dare say, to the reader as well. Time
passes slowly. Jones hails Brown, and offers him seven to four. (After
the race had terminated, I saw Jones cash up a 100 pounds fresh
bank-note, which I thought might have been more usefully invested.)
Robinson bets Smith what he likes that he does not name the winner; and
one gent, with an unpleasing expression of countenance, offers to do a
little business with me, which I decline, for reasons that I am not
particularly desirous to communicate to my new acquaintance. I am glad
to see a policeman or two present, for one likes to know the protection
of the law may be invoked in an extremity, and I keep near its manifest
and outward sign. The White Lion is doing a fine business; there is an
active demand for beer and tobacco; and a gentleman who deals in fried
fish soon clears off his little stock of delicacies, as likewise does a
peripatetic vendor of sandwiches of a mysterious origin. The heroes of
the night slowly walk up and down the course, wearing long great coats,
beneath which we may see their naked legs, and feet encased in light
laced shoes. Their backers are with them, and a crowd watches with
curious eyes. At length the course is cleared, a bell is rung, and they
are off. Six times round the course is a mile--six times ten are sixty.
Sixty times must they pass and repass that excited mob. The favourite
takes the lead at a steady running; he maintains it some time; he is
longer than his opponent, but the latter is younger, and looks more
muscular in his thighs. Both men, with the exception of a cloth round
the loins, are naked as when born; and as they run they scatter the mud,
which mud thus scattered descends upon them in a by no means refreshing
shower. As round after round is run the excitement deepens; the
favourite is greeted with cheers; but when at the end of the third mile
he is passed by his competitor excites an enthusiasm which is intense.
Now the bettors tremble; the favourite attempts to get his old position;
he gains on his foe--they are now neck and neck--cheer, boys, cheer--"Go
it, Jem!" is the cry on many sides. Jem the winner does go it; but,
alas! Jem the loser cannot. It is in vain he seeks the lead. Fortune
has declared against him, and in a little while he gives up--no longer
the swiftest and fleetest of England's sons--no longer the holder of the
Champion's Cup. One involuntarily feels for fallen greatness, and as
Pudney was led away utterly beaten, I could not find it in my heart to
rejoice. I left a crowd still on the grounds. I left Rowan still
running, as he was bound to do, till he had completed his ten miles: and
I left the White Lion, in-doors and out, doing a very considerable
business. It seemed to me the White Lion was not such a fool as he
looked, and that he felt, let who will win or lose, he with his beer and
brandy would not come off second best. This, undoubtedly, was the worst
part of the business. The race over, for further excitement, the
multitude would rush to the White Lion--the losers to drown their sorrow,
the winners to spend their gains; the many, who were neither winners nor
losers, merely because others did so; and thus, as the hours pass, would
come intoxication, anger, follies, and, perhaps, bitterness of heart for
life.
May I here enumerate the heroes of pedestrianism? Let me name Robert
Skipper, who walked a thousand miles in a thousand successive
half-hours--let me not forget Captain Barclay, who walked a thousand
miles in a thousand successive hours--let me record the fame of Captain
John T. G. Campbell, of the 91st, who, accoutred in the heavy marching
order of a private soldier, on the Mallow and Fermoy road, did ten miles
in 107.25 minutes. All honour be to such! long may their memories be
green! Let me beg the considerate reader not to forget West, who ran
forty miles in five hours and a half. Ten miles an hour is done by all
the best runners. It is said West accomplished 100 miles in 18 hours. I
read in a certain work devoted to manly exercises, "at the rate of four
miles an hour a man may walk any length of time." The writer begs to
inform the reader that he doubts this very much.